


Too Much

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-18 07:23:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4697297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, angst, romance<br/>I don't own the characters, or The Blacklist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Unhappy

"I can't take any more of this!"

Liz snaps without warning, her mind registering the high, almost hysterical tone of her own voice as if she's listening to a stranger.

Red pauses, mid-sip, his glass of champagne frozen at his lips.

They are, or were, having drinks before dinner in the elegantly appointed sitting room of their hotel suite.

"I feel like a cardboard cutout!"

Her voice trembles as she gestures at her floor-length gown, a designer creation that clings like a second skin.

"So, we'll go shopping tomorrow?" Red ventures, his eyes widening at the force of the glare she turns on him in response to this rather innocuous suggestion.

"No! I'm sick of designer clothes, and fancy dinners, and ...and ... champagne that costs more than an entire keg of beer!"

She tilts her flute and swallows the remainder of the delicious golden liquid, realizing as she does so that she is being irrational, that she is the one who requested they drink champagne tonight rather than Red's customary scotch.

Looking wary, Red murmurs dubiously, "I suppose we could order a keg ...?"

Liz stares at him in exasperation. Elegantly dressed for dinner, Red is once again playing the role of attentive, personable companion.

They've been on the run from the FBI for nearly a month, and every day since they flew to Mexico City has been almost exactly the same. One cosmopolitan city after another.

An expensive hotel, shopping, sightseeing, dinner and then some type of entertainment.

Opera, theater, live music.

Red has spent hours each day in meetings with his various business associates, but he has always arranged activities for Liz. Guided tours, spa services, yoga classes, innumerable lessons in whatever takes her fancy.

It's a luxurious, cultured, international lifestyle. Most evenings they are joined for dinner by charming and amusing companions. And they are always back at their hotel suite by midnight, at which point Red bids her a punctilious good night and shuts himself away in his own bedroom.

His lights are on at all hours. She doesn't know if he's reading, or exercising, or doing business in some other time zone by telephone. The soundproofing is too effective.

"That's not my point!" 

Liz stamps her foot, her expensive heels making no sound due to the plush carpet of the suite.

"Which is?"

Red is still smiling, but she catches him checking his watch. They have a dinner reservation in 30 minutes, and he always prefers to have a drink first at the bar.

She knows so much about his habits, and next to nothing about the man himself. It actually feels as if the Raymond Reddington she was coming to know has been slowly retreating from view, replaced by a polite yet disinterested stranger.

She's useless to him, and to herself. A risk, a liability. Some days she feels like a child, who needs to be entertained.

She has no work. No purpose. And Red has repeatedly refused her any role in his organization.

"I don't want to live like this!"

Red raises an eyebrow, then strolls over and pours himself another glass of champagne.

"Would you like another glass?"

She nods rather sullenly and allows him to pour, then return the bottle to the ice bucket.

"So, how would you like to live?" Red asks her, taking a sip of his champagne and smiling at her in such a kind and helpful way that Liz wants to grab the nearest object and fling it directly at his head.

Nothing she says or does seems to move him at all, as if a wall separates them so she can never, ever touch him.

Liz gasps as the truth hits her all at once.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

Red escorts her about on his arm, dances with her at a careful arm's length. Sets no more than his fingertips in the small of her back as he guides her through crowds.

He no longer invites her touch, any more than he seems open to the emotional intimacy they shared before.

Liz drains her champagne flute for courage, sets it down, and advances on Red.

"Lizzie?"

Standing in front of him, she reaches out and offers a few small tweaks to his outfit, tugging at his pocket handkerchief, unnecessarily straightening his perfectly tied silk tie.

"Lizzie?" He sounds uncertain, his mouth pursing briefly as if considering a specific question.

"That's better - very nice."

Red stands complaisant beneath her touch, but Liz sees his nostrils flare she leans in close to sniff his cologne, then compliments him on how well it blends with her own expensive perfume.

The one he chose for her, of course.

Not disinterest, then.

Perhaps tonight will be more than just another dinner. Perhaps tonight will be the start of something more.


	2. What In The World?

Red escorts Liz to the bar and orders cocktails for them both, scanning the small, marble-floored hotel lobby for anything that might be amiss. 

Still nothing.

He's paraded Elizabeth Keen around his favorite luxury hotels on every continent, and the only surveillance his bodyguards have uncovered has been from other criminals and bounty hunters.

It's as if Ressler isn't even trying to catch Liz.

"Thank you, Red."

Liz accepts her drink from him with a sweet smile that belies the scene she just enacted upstairs in their suite, and scans the room as well.

They are meeting a very interesting couple from Basel for dinner tonight. They own property in Nova Scotia, some of which Red now plans to purchase through an intermediary.

Red would much rather think about Nova Scotia than the little touches Liz bestowed on him upstairs. At least, when he's in public.

"A quiet night, sir," ventures the barman, eying Red's glass speculatively. He's drinking faster than he intended.

"Another, please," Red tells him, mostly to shoo the man away.

Liz lays her hand on his sleeve. Her fingers feel unaccountably heavy, just above his wrist. Why is she touching him?

"They are good, aren't they?" she comments, sipping her own drink slowly.

Red gives just a little twitch of his wrist, but her fingers close rather than opening.

"Relax, Red," she tells him, giving him a little smile.

Her hand on him is not relaxing. She'll wrinkle his sleeve if she's not careful.

He's already wound tight enough, spending so much time with her, sleeping in a bed so close to hers. Two doors between them.

Two doors, and a world.

He imagines her bare fingers on his forearm, and his heart races. Would she stroke his wrists, allow him to caress her scar in turn?

He can't imagine removing his shirt in her presence. His scars have turned much stronger stomachs than hers.

But to roll up his sleeves, hold hands, trace her pale, sensitive skin up to her elbow?

Her evening dress leaves her shoulders bare, but she's flung a scarf around her neck in addition to the heavy, almost barbaric necklace the designer recommended.

"Red?"

He's an old fool, mooning over the random body parts of a woman as unobtainable as the sun. Forbidden to him by his own conscience, if nothing else.

She's completely dependent on him.

"The drinks are delicious," he responds, giving her the smile such a banality deserves.

For a second fury flares in her eyes, and he can't help but wince with dread at the thought of a public scene. Then she smiles back, and he wonders if it was fury. She looks so smug, all of a sudden.

She releases his arm.

"Hold still, you have something on your face."

Liz puts her fingertips on his cheekbone, rubs near the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

"There. Got it," she says, giving his face what feels like a caress, her manicured pink nails tracing the very edge of his sideburns.

"Lizzie?" he cautions her, but she's already looking past him, smiling to greet the couple approaching from across the lobby.

"It's so nice to see you again!"

What in the world has gotten into her, tonight?


	3. Nervous

Throughout the multi-course meal, and afterward at the concert, Liz keeps stealing glances at Red. Clumsily enough that he has to notice.

Causing him to look more and more nervous.

What started as a small test has become, under the influence of a few glasses of wine, more like a one-sided game of chicken.

She touches him, too. At every opportunity. Expecting him to stop her, wondering why he doesn't.

Until she steps backwards against him as he holds her coat for her, at the end of the conference, and realizes he is more than nervous.

Liz remains pressed against that impressive evidence of Red's desire for just a second too long before quickly stepping away.

That went too far. Not just flirting.

He shrugs on his own coat and ushers her out into the night.

"I think we should skip the night cap." He sounds tired.

Liz sits silently beside him on the taxi ride back to the hotel, claiming a headache.

"I just need to take some ibuprofen and lie down."

He's rather uncommunicative as well, almost grim.

"We're scheduled to leave tomorrow - should I delay our departure?" His voice is a little rough, but still warm with concern.

"No, I'm sure I'll be fine after a night's rest."

Liz hopes she can rest. 

It's one thing to want Red's attention, to piece together small details that add depth to her mental profile. FBI agent in action.

It's another to even consider a more intimate relationship.

But their previous relationship seems to be slipping away, leaving her an expensive puppet.

What does she really want?

Liz bites her lip and glances over at Red as the taxi pulls to a halt.

"Thank you, sir!"

"Thank you, Carlos. A very smooth ride."

Red always tips generously. He's courteous and thoughtful; he remembers people's names.

The hotel bar is closed. One of their bodyguards is reading a newspaper on a bench outside. He looks up at them, then back to his reading. All clear.

They ride up the elevator in silence. Normally Red would be full of chatter about the music, the musicians, the last time he listened to a particular piece.

Perhaps he's being considerate of her headache?

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Red," she tells him, as he unlocks the suite and ushers her inside.


	4. What Are They Doing?

Red waits for her bedroom door to close firmly behind her before loosening his tie.

"A lovely evening," he mutters to himself, pouring a generous slug of scotch and wandering to the window of the sitting room. Wishing he could throw the curtains wide, rather than just peer through a careful slit at the glittering lights of the city's nightlife.

Liz doesn't just have a headache. She positively recoiled from him, as if she never expected a response to her teasing. As if she doesn't think of him as a man, with needs. What does she really want?

Draping his coat and tie over one arm, he refills his glass before retreating to his own room, turning off lights as he goes.

Another night alone. Red doesn't sleep well without someone he trusts awake in the room. The legacy of too many years on the run, when being isolated meant being at the greatest risk.

And now he has Liz to protect, so he's relegated his bodyguards to a room across the hall.

He's stripped down to his green silk boxers, his clothing carefully hung away, when there's a light tap on his door.

"Red?"

Snatching up the white terry hotel robe from the hook on his bathroom door, Red belts it around his waist and pulls the door open just a crack.

"Red?"

He clutches the door knob as she lays her palm on the door, the light pressure a clear request to enter.

He hasn't showered yet. His feet are bare, but he's still wearing his watch.

"Lizzie?"

"Please, Red? Can I come in?"

Of course she can come in. This is where he's always wanted her, from that first day, isn't it? Late at night, in his bedroom, like one of his more lurid fantasies come to life.

'Take me, Red. I need you. I love you.'

Except that in the impossibly unlikely eventuality she were ever to offer, he would be honor-bound to turn her down. Not that he's ever fantasized about that conversation. She'd probably stick more than a pen in his neck.

He's hesitated too long to send her away. Reluctantly, Red pulls the door open and gestures for her to enter.

Liz is wearing a long, dark blue silk robe with a matching nightgown beneath it, trimmed in handmade lace dyed to match. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, damp around her hairline. She smells like the hotel's custom soap and lotion; expensive and a little exotic.

"Thanks, Red, this won't take too long."

She seats herself at the foot of his bed with a bounce, her hair highlighted by the bedside lamp.

Red tucks his hands in the pockets of the robe, careful not to tug against the belt keeping it closed.

"I can't take any more of this," she tells him, her blue eyes wide, dark smudges showing beneath her eyes now that her makeup has been removed. "I'm sorry if this is the way you like to live, but I just can't be this ... useless."

He tilts his head, considering. Perhaps he needs to be a little more open with her, since she's not enjoying what he privately considers a vacation, albeit a rather whirlwind one.

"Lizzie, I've been waiting for someone to make contact." He pauses, registering her incomprehension. "I expected a bit more diligence from the FBI."

Liz lets out a startled little laugh. "From the Task Force?" she asks, raising her dark brows.

"Yes." Red frowns at the merriment in her eyes. 

Liz leans back and crosses her legs, the silk clinging to her body.

"Red, I asked them to back off. I thought you were doing something ... mysterious."

He glares at her in disbelief.

"You asked the FBI to back off? How?"

She's still smiling, but looking a little uncertain.

"Aram and I have a code."

"A code?"

He probably sounds like an idiot, repeating everything she's saying. He's been flying all over the world, trying to provide an appropriate opportunity for a dialogue on foreign soil, and she's been talking to Aram the whole time?

Red is abruptly too angry to speak. Beautiful and desirable she may be, but she's still hiding secrets from him. 

He knows about the night she spent with Tom, not that she's ever hinted at it to him. What else is she capable of hiding?

"Get out, Lizzie," he grinds out, crossing to the door and holding it wide. He may look a fool in his fluffy white robe, but he's not having the rest of this conversation without his suit, and his hat. And she needs to be wearing something that doesn't perfectly show the shape of her small breasts, pushed upwards as she crosses her arms defiantly over her chest.

"Red, I came to apologize..." she begins, then rises and stomps towards the door as he stands waiting without another word.

She slams her own bedroom door behind her, and then he closes his own door and leans his forehead against it. His eyes are hot and his last glass of scotch is souring rapidly in his stomach.

He needs to trust her. She needs to trust him.

Or what are they doing on the run together, anyway?


	5. What Does She Want

Liz stomps angrily into her luxurious bathroom, looking for something to throw. But the hotel toiletries are all lined up in the shower, half-empty with their tops open, and she doesn't want the smell and mess of them, or the effort needed to close them back up. After one despairing glance at herself in the mirror, the dark blue silk in stark contrast to the bright color in her cheeks, she shoves the bathroom door closed, sits down on the toilet and cries, her face pressed into a plush white hotel hand towel.

How could she possibly have known that he expected the FBI to appear? Liz risked herself, and Aram, just to try and give Red what she thought he wanted. Space, and time, and safety.

She's always trying to please him, to give him what he wants. That's her pattern with the men she respects, with her father, with Cooper, with Red. 

Which brings her inevitably back to the question, what does she really want?

Liz washes her face in cold water and wipes it dry, then sits back down on the toilet, unwilling to return to her room yet in case she starts sobbing again.

She wants some meaningful work. 

She wants to be treated as a valued associate.

And, god help her, she wants Red himself. She wants to see more of the man behind the urbane mask, more too of the big, powerful body he keeps hidden beneath his perfectly tailored suits.

That glimpse of him in his robe tonight changed everything for her. 

He's stubborn and secretive and infuriating, but it was all she could do not to open her robe, rub herself up against him, and beg.

That clearly wouldn't work with him, though.

Red makes decisions with his mind, not his body. And for some reason, he's decided she's off limits to him. Her looks and her touches earlier in the evening made him very uncomfortable.

He didn't respond in kind. But he didn't ask her to stop.

Liz leans forward and looks down at the expensively tiled bathroom floor, trying to force her tired mind to put together the pieces.

He was furious with her.

She made him nervous.

She can't take any more of this.

Liz belts her robe tighter and leaves the bathroom, glances at her bed without interest. The thick covers are folded down, the soft pillows are perfectly arrayed, but she knows she'll just lie there, thinking.

She crosses to the door, turns the handle as quietly as possible, and slips out into the sitting room.

The ever-attentive hotel staff will have restocked the bar. Perhaps a drink will help her sleep. She's grown accustomed to a nightcap, or two.

The large room is dark, but she doesn't want to turn on the lights in case they glow beneath Red's bedroom door and attract his attention.

"Lizzie."

He's standing by the bar, a dim shape in the darkness. She can hear the tinkle of ice in his glass, smell the strong scent of scotch.

At least he can't see her face. Her eyes are red and swollen from crying, and she can barely keep her voice from shaking.

"I couldn't sleep. Pour me a drink, will you, please?"

She fumbles as she reaches for it, and their fingers brush. His hands are so warm. Liz feels as if her skin is alternately too hot and icy as she takes a grateful sip.

"I couldn't sleep either."

A rare admission of weakness, in his deep, deep voice. It seems neither of them want to turn on the lights.

Red is still wearing the white hotel robe, but he smells different. Liz steps just a little closer, disguising it as a move towards the bar. She leans on it with one hand, sips her drink with the other.

Hotel soap. He's taken a shower as well.

Her mind presents her with a hazy, probably inaccurate visual of the water sleeting down his naked body, and she clutches the bar tightly.

She had planned earlier to apologize for her behavior, but she can't bring herself to open her mouth. She just stands there, trying to control her breathing, listening to him swirl his drink, then take another sip.

Listening to the carefully measured breaths he's taking, as well.

Red wants her. She can feel his desire vibrating in the darkened space between them, almost smell it rising from his skin.

He's standing so close, his shoulders squared, his head bent forward. She hears him swallow, but he doesn't speak.

They've been traveling together for almost a month, and this is the first time they've seen each other in their nightclothes. The first, and perhaps the last.

She can't go on like this.

Whatever Red wants, she needs to focus on herself.


	6. Hold Still

Red listens to the sound of her breathing, hears the little hitch that tells him Liz is thinking, not just reacting. The click when she sets her glass on the bar is impossibly loud.

"Red?"

She steps forward, and he steps back, away from her touch, almost as smoothly as if this was a dance.

"Hold still."

He freezes as she grabs the lapels of his robe, pulling it partway open as his belt starts to loosen.

His drink is no longer a distraction. He sets his glass down on the bar, gritting his teeth as she tugs at his robe, his belt slipping just a little more, the front of his robe falling open almost to his waist.

"Lizzie. You don't want this." Thankfully, his voice comes out appropriately stern. "I don't want this."

"No?" 

Her voice in the darkness is faintly mocking, but she stops tugging, then steps a little closer, her breasts almost brushing against him, her feet so close the tips of their toes are touching. She shifts from one foot to the other, placing her right foot firmly between his feet.

"No, Lizzie." He knows better than to pull away, or to use force. She's trembling with emotion, and all he can offer her is his strength. He gentles his voice, keeps his hands off her curves, so temptingly near in that tight silk robe, with an effort that makes him ache deep inside. To hold her, even just for a moment, would be to assent. "You're better than this."

She makes a little sound, her hands tightening on his lapels. His robe falls open, exposing him fully, allowing him no further pretense at disinterest. 

"Lizzie, you don't need to do this. You don't owe me anything. I will protect you, and keep you safe. Always."

Red steels himself to lift his hands to her shoulders, to push her away.

He pauses as she lets out a short, incredulous laugh.

"Owe you anything?" Her voice is raw and husky, and he can hear the tears threatening to fall. "And what if you owe me something?"

He almost misses the next sentence, trying to make sense of her logic, as she slips her arms around his naked body, beneath his robe, then presses her silk-clad form tightly against him.

Her face is close to his, but she's not trying to kiss him, just nuzzling her face against his neck before whispering in his ear.

"What about my needs, Red?"

He can't. He just can't. If he takes advantage of her, at a time when she's so unsettled, so vulnerable, he'll never forgive himself. She'll never forgive him. And the consequences for her future will be disastrous. At least, to him.

"You do know that I need you, Red."

Her hands are mapping his scarred back and the generous curves of his body with no evidence of distaste. Her breath is warm against his neck, heavy with scotch. She licks his neck, trailing kisses up towards his ear.

"I want you, Red. More and more, every day." 

He closes his eyes, just barely managing to keep his shaking hands off her. 

"And I know that you want me."

Liz rubs against him as he stands unmoving, hoping to wait her out. She'll stop eventually if he doesn't respond, she'll cry, but she'll retreat to her own room eventually. And then he needs to rethink his strategy. Find a way to keep her safe that doesn't involve traveling together.

Preferably, they should be on different continents.

"No, Lizzie," he tells her again, clamping down on his voice as her hands slide past his waist, following the scar tissue that covers the back of his body to mid-thigh.

"Yes, Red. Yes."

He shudders and turns his face to the side as her lips seek his. He'll allow her anything but that. 

She'll stop. In the face of his refusal, not touching her at all? She has to stop.

Liz steps back, her eyes searching his face in the darkness. Her hands are curved at his hipbones, her nails digging lightly into his sensitive flesh on either side.

She licks her lips. Red tilts his jaw up, then pulls his head back, just enough to make his meaning clear. Gritting his teeth.

The touch of her body, straining against the dark blue silk. How can he miss it so much, the very second she steps away?

His hands are fists at his sides, still shaking. He needs to belt his robe closed, return to his room.

At least he'll never have to endure this again.

Red has finally managed to unclench his fists, and he's about to reach for his robe, when Liz drops to her knees.


	7. She Wants Him

"Lizzie..." he says, almost growling, as she clutches his hips and takes him deep in her mouth. The scent of that so soft skin, the size of him, every detail is intoxicating.

His fingers knot briefly in her hair, tugging, and she digs her nails into his skin, using him as roughly as she dares. 

Making it clear how badly she wants him, wants this.

She can feel the exact moment he surrenders, his fingers suddenly so light on the back of her head, moving his hips to accommodate her preferred rhymn.

It doesn't take him that long.

Still on her knees, Liz lays her face against Red's belly, wraps her arms around him as she savors the feel of his hands stroking her hair, the taste of him in the back of her throat. He cried out in a language she didn't recognize, words she didn't understand.

"Oh, Lizzie." 

The pain in his voice, the pain she would banish forever, if she could.

Liz presses a kiss into the softness of his belly. She loves the feel of him, the lush fleshiness that fills out his suits with such style.

Then she looks up, unable to make out his face. He seems to be looking away into the darkness.

"We should move this to my room," she whispers, kissing his stomach once more. "I want your hands on me."

She pauses, feels him begin to tremble, his hands stilling against her hair. Did he think this was all she wanted?

"I want your mouth on me, Red. Please."

He pulls her up to her feet, takes her face between his hands. Very deliberately, he bends his mouth to hers, licks the outline of her lips as she shudders with need.

But he doesn't kiss her.

He just takes her hand, and leads her effortlessly across the dark room to her bedroom.

At the doorway, he pauses. 

"You know I don't want this, Lizzie," he tells her, his voice so deep and gravelly she almost gasps. "If we do this, it will change things between us forever."

She reaches out for his bare chest, lays her hand over his heart.

"Things have already changed," she tells him. Not sure what she's agreeing to, but so aroused she can barely string the words together.

"Come, then," he says in a tone that somehow contains both resignation and desire. And beneath it, despair.

Liz tries to sort that out as Red drops his robe to the floor and removes first her silk robe, then her nightgown, hands caressing her expertly as he ravages her mouth.

He tips her back onto the bed, her head on the pillows, then joins her, holding her splayed and shuddering beneath him as his mouth traces intricate patterns that his fingers follow. Red seems to know what she feels almost before she does, and just what she wants next.

Liz reaches for him even as she opens to his touch. Reaches for his shoulders, the back of his neck, the hard curve of his skull.

"Red. Stop, Red."

His mouth lingers, sweet and perfect, his hands so hot on her skin. She's balanced on the impossible edge of her own desire, raw with need.

"Yes. Lizzie. Yes." 

Her thighs shake as he kisses her between each word, his mouth so wet, his tongue doing outrageous things to her nerves. 

"Stop, Red."

He lifts his face, meets her gaze with that terrible despair she only sensed in him before.

"Tell me, Red."

His face softens slightly.

"After, Lizzie, we can talk after."

Then he bends to his work once again, his efforts somehow redoubled and she screams out in disbelief as he brings her up and over the edge with a terrible finality, almost unconscious at the end with the force of her own release, so long denied.


	8. She'll Thank Him

Red tucks her head against his bare chest and holds her body tightly against him, stroking her soft skin as she squirms as if trying to get even closer to him.

He never intended this to happen. He can't bear to think of what he's done. What he's about to do.

Sh'll never forgive him. He'll never forgive himself.

All he can hope is that someday, in the long game, she will understand.

Liz raises her head and looks at him.

Red tries to smile at her, looks away to scan the large, elegantly decorated room. The closet stands open, filled with designer clothing and Italian shoes. Her dark blue silk robe and nightgown lie crumpled on the floor beside the white bulk of his hotel robe.

All the trappings of his wealth. Worse than nothing to him now.

"Red? What's wrong?" 

He swallows hard and looks at her, clutching him beneath the meager concealment of the sheet.

"We'll need to leave here tomorrow. Separately."

Her eyes widen.

"Separately?"

He nods.

"I told you this would change everything, Lizzie." He pulls her a little tighter, as if to emphasize his words. "We can't be seen together, after this."

She frowns in confusion. Such an adorable look most of the time, heartbreaking at this juncture.

"Don't you understand?"

He wants to shake her, kiss her, make love to her again and again. He wants to turn back time, lock her in her bedroom. Lock his own bedroom door.

"Explain it to me, Red."

He keeps his words precise. The words he had hoped never to speak to her.

"You have no public role in my organization." He swallows, watches her nod, still not comprehending. "We can't publicize your ongoing connection to the FBI, our work together, without putting Aram and the others at risk."

She blinks at him, her brow still furrowed.

"If we were to continue traveling together, you would be known not just as a fugitive, but as my woman." Somehow, she's still looking puzzled, a faint smile lingering at her lips. Loyal to the core. 

"So? I'm not ashamed," she whispers tenderly.

He doesn't want to say the word. But he has to. "You would be considered my mistress. My whore."

Her mouth falls open. He looks away from her eyes, concentrates on the lovely line of her jaw.

"Lizzie, in my world, there are no pretty words to describe a younger woman who is supported by an older man." He clears his throat, then goes on. "Until now, you were just another client on the run. And it's been quite evident that our relationship is not ... intimate."

She shakes her head slowly, and when he risks a glance at her, she doesn't look sad, or angry. She still looks puzzled.

"And that would hurt you?" she begins, tilting her face a little as she speaks. "That people would think ... I was only sleeping with you for your money?"

He purses his lips, disconcerted at her concern for him. Of course it wouldn't make any tangible difference to him, other than the discomfort of knowing she would be seen and treated that way.

But over time, that pervasive contempt would become impossible for her to endure. It would corrupt and sour everything real between them. She's completely dependent on him right now. Every stitch of clothing she's wearing, her jewelry, even her guns and ammunition were purchased with his money.

Red can't marry her. Not until he discovers the truth about that night, which might never be possible. Not while he still may be married.

He needs to let her go. Allow her to build a new life filled with honor and decency.

She'll thank him, eventually.


	9. Remember

Liz reaches out and runs her fingers over his face, smoothing his eyebrows, tracing the line of his nose. Such delicate fingers. He wants time to stop, so he can just lie still in her arms, beneath her touch.

"Red, remember when I asked you whether anyone had ever helped you?"

He nods, the lump in his throat intensifying. That night in the car, when his emotions were so close to the surface, after she had saved him from certain death at the King Family auction. Betrayed by one woman, rescued by another.

"You do know if our positions were reversed, that I'd happily support you? Help you to build a new life with me, whatever that might look like?"

She's lightly touching the heavy creases beneath his eyes now, the network of fine lines at the corners of his mouth. Her expression is so tender.

No, Red doesn't know that. 

He can't even begin to fathom an imaginary world where Liz has all the money and power he's worked so hard to acquire, and with the world at her fingertips, she would choose him. Out of all the men in the world.

He closes his eyes in pain.

"It's not that I don't want to support you, Lizzie ..." he begins.

She strokes his temples, runs her nails up and down his sideburns. 

"Oh, you're going to," she says, a new note in her voice causing him to open his eyes. She sounds confident now, even a little amused. "Even if we separate, I will still need to depend on you, Red, until I can figure out how to support myself. I can't just mail out job applications for work as a profiler."

He nods somberly, not quite sure what she's trying to say. He can't quite believe that she's still lying in bed with him, holding him, after he told her he plans to send her away. 

"So I'll probably spend a great deal of your money. There's no reason you shouldn't be with me, to help me spend it."

She's smiling at him now, a fond smile that invites him to join her.

"Lizzie, you don't understand ..." he begins, but she interrupts him by placing her hand over his mouth. Red stares at her in mute entreaty. Liz pins him with her intense blue stare.

"Red, I don't really enjoy this ultra-rich lifestyle. I'd prefer to settle down with you in one place - a log cabin in Colorado, or a renovated Victorian in San Francisco, or on a sailboat in the Gulf of Mexico. "

All of those choices sound wonderful to Red. Heart-breakingly wonderful. Her smile widens, as if she can read through his feigned composure to the agony twisting within his chest.

"But I'd rather spend the rest of my life traveling around the world with you, wearing a diamond necklace around my neck that spells out "Property of Raymond Reddington" for all the world to see, than ever let you go."

He blinks at her, trying to absorb what she's offering. That this isn't just curiosity, or loneliness, that this isn't casual.

The rest of her life. Together, until the end. Whatever that end may look like.

"So?"

She removes her hand from his mouth, then gives him a challenging stare, which softens almost at once, her eyes filling with tears to match the moisture standing in his eyes.

Her adoration almost unmans him.

"That's going to take a lot of diamonds, Lizzie," he finally manages.

She leans in and presses her smiling lips gently to his, in a kiss full of promise. 

"Then I guess you'd better step up the crime," she answers him, her hands moving to cradle his head as he clings to her, dizzy with disbelief and joy.

Unexpected, overwhelming joy.


End file.
